Bing bong bing bong bong bong bing bong (Big Ben chimes doorbell) Me: who is it? Depression: oh an old friend! Me: [excited because I’ve been isolated for seven months, opens door expectantly] Oh, no. It’s you. How did you get our new address? Depression: I can find you anywhere at any time in anyplace
Leave me alone, please and stop annoying me. Of course I love you. I don’t blame you for everything. You are pissing me off now. Do not make me say something I will regret. Of course I want to go to your oncology appointment. You never told me what time we had to go. You
Yearning for my partner’s support and the kind of tender and caring love many of which many metastatic sisters write and blog about, I now look over at him, home in bed, and find one whose dark, inky emotions remain locked away inside his heart, like the stars behind clouds in a dark night sky. He lays there disengaged, thinking to himself about things that cause long bouts of sighing, and the simmering anger of so many men who find themselves bitten by such disorders.